


Cursed

by ficsandcatsandficsandcats



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficsandcatsandficsandcats/pseuds/ficsandcatsandficsandcats
Summary: Reader Request: if I may get a little Jask fic where the reader is cursed to be extremely ugly, and is ashamed and hides in a cloak/helmet/whatever to hide her face. Obviously shes in love with him, but theres no way he would ever love someone so hideous. Inevitably, one day someone sees her without the mask, (I dont care who, it can be anyone, even Jask) and they end up talking feelings and shame and all that good stuff.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Cursed

There were those who spurned fairytales. They dismissed the stories of fairy godmothers and curses as children’s tales, moralistic tools for discipline. You knew better. You knew all too well how real fairy godmothers were, and how vicious they were when their charges were mistreated. You’d never been able to glean from your father what act he committed to enrage the fairy so but you knew the fallout. Your mother died in childbirth and you, against all odds, stubbornly clung to life and survived. Another punishment had to be handed down and the curse was placed. When you looked in the mirror you saw someone plain. Features indistinct and uninteresting, a canvas of a person. 

You were the lucky one. When others looked at you, they saw the face of the ugliest creature their imaginations could conjure. The fairy had been clever, knowing all too well that beauty was in the eye of beholder and that the only way to ensure your misery and loneliness was to make sure that every eye that beheld you saw something so uniquely gruesome to their own taste that they could not look past it. Your father was included in this and though he denied it you knew between that and losing your mother he was not able to feel or express love for you as he would have been if you weren’t so repugnant in his eyes.

You took to traveling and healing, still clinging to life like you had in your infancy, still determined to fight for your space in the world. Travelling meant you never had to get to know anyone too well or get too close. You’d tried using paints as other ladies did if they wanted to change their appearance but this only seemed to intensify the revulsion you inspired. You ended up wearing a heavy, hooded cloak and a kerchief about your mouth for extra measure. You were an intimidating figure but you tried to balance this with a soft voice and greater skill in healing. If you could offer something to people, you could briefly get the interaction you craved. But you always kept travelling and you rarely ran into the same person twice.

Until Jaskier.

You met him the way you met most people; providing a service. He’d come by your wagon in a rough state, explaining as you cleaned up his wounds that he’d gotten into a disagreement during his performance the night before. He was charming and kind, only asking about your odd attire once and then leaving it be when you made it clear you didn’t want to discuss it. He paid you more coin than you would have asked and you felt grateful that you’d had the chance to meet him and knew it would remain an encounter you kept close to your heart the rest of your days.

And then you saw him again. This time he caught you unawares, out on a very rare excursion away from your wagon to get some supplies. You’d never had someone see you a second time and look so happy about it. He joined you on your shopping, haggling with the shop owners and asking you for advice on the songs he was writing. He tried to get to know you a bit more, asking about how long you’d been traveling and why you’d chosen healing as a profession. It was easy to talk to him and you almost forgot he couldn’t see the burden you hid beneath your wrappings. He walked you back to your wagon, even going so far as to help you up into it, his hand grasping yours lightly to support you. Your touch starved skin tingled for hours in the spot his hand had been.

The third time you saw him was the worst day of your life. You’d known you were taking a risk by leaving the wagon without the hood and mask but you tried to convince yourself that you were only going down to the river for a moment to bathe. It was early winter and you knew no one would be around, smartly tucked up in their houses with their loved ones and fending off the frost. The water stung your skin but you enjoyed the sensation, happy to be free of the heavy clothes for these moments.

And then you saw him.

You clamored out of the river but you’d only pulled on your dress, still scrambling for the cloak when he stopped in his tracks. Confusion followed by recognition followed by even more confusion washed over his face and you felt your heart break as he cautiously approached.

“Y/N?” he asked. There was no point in pretending, the cloak and kerchief were in hand.

“Jaskier,” you said. You stood across from each other in silence for what felt like ages. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to do. Not everyone who saw you was cruel, some were just afraid which was almost worse. Jaskier just looked confused and intrigued. His eyes kept traveling over your face like he was trying to commit it to memory.

“Say something,” you said finally, your voice choked with repressed tears. He walked towards you slowly as though he were trying not to spook a horse. By the time he reached you the tears fell from your unblinking eyes. You kept looking for the moment he would turn. The revulsion that would shatter the lovingly preserved memories of him forever. He reached out and brushed away the tears and then reached down and took the cloak from your hands. You stood unmoving as he gently wrapped the cloak back around you, lifting the hood to cover your half-frozen hair. He held the kerchief in his hand but didn’t cover your face, just fidgeted with it as he worked to form words.

“So this is your deep secret,” he said. You nod, unable to form words.

“I’m disappointed.”

The words broke your heart.

“I thought it would be that you were a murderer or a dangerous fugitive,” he continued.

“What?”

“Well, I mean, unless, are you?” he asked.

“No,” you answered.

“Ok so you wear the cloak and the kerchief and the layers and things because…” his voice trailed off, leaving the question open for your answer.

“Because I’m hideous,” the words are like ashes in your mouth but you’re accustomed to the taste.

“According to whom?” he asked. You scoffed incredulously.

“Everyone. Literally everyone. That’s how it works.”

“That’s how what works?”

“The curse.”

“You’re cursed? How fascinating.”

His words anger you and you fear that he’s mocking you, that maybe the kindness he’s shown is just an act and that this a fresh way to experience cruelty. You thought you’d seen them all.

But you tell him the story. You tell him about the curse and your mirrorless childhood and the moment you saw your face and the worse moment when you began asking people to describe you and learned the true nature of the curse, far beyond the loss of a mother or a plain face. You don’t know when you both sit on the ground but at some point you’re there next to each other, leaning against the wheels of the wagon as the words continue to tumble out of you like a dam that’s finally broken. No one has ever heard this much of you, seen this much of you, or sat this long with you in your life and you stop caring how he’s going to react at the end. This isn’t about him anymore, this is about you releasing all that you’d carried and all that you’ll carry with you for the rest of your life. When you’re done you notice he’s taken your hand at some point and his thumb is softly rubbing soothing circles around your knuckles.

“So now this is my life. I stay hidden for my sake as much as everyone else’s. I heal because it’s better than sitting locked up in a house all my life and because it helps me feel… well, just that I suppose. It helps me feel. I would rather feel those brief moments of connection than stay numb my whole life,” you say. You’re startled to see there are tears in his eyes and he pulls you into a hug, not sure if he’s comforting you or himself but you hug him back though you’re long out of practice.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into the hood of your cloak, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Everyone has their curses I suppose,” you mumble, a little embarrassedand uncertain how to respond.

“Yes but the worst part is it’s all so stupid. So people find you ugly, so what? What could that possibly have to do with your worth as a person?” he asks.

“It’s easy to say that when you’re beautiful,” you say bitterly.

“Beauty doesn’t secure your place in people’s lives. It sure as hell doesn’t make them want you around either,” he says. “But tell me you realize this can’t keep on forever.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Well this… lonely existence, it’s miserable. No offense. Even you said as much. Are you really going to just hide yourself away forever?”

“I didn’t… I don’t see any other option.”

His hand is warm as it gently cups your face and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

“Take me with you,” he says.

“What?”

“Take me with you. I make a better travelling companion than most think. And I can help! Not with the healing and such but… listen, I had a friend who was treated much the same as you describe and I was able to help… bridge the gap between him and the people around him,” he says.

“How did you do that?”

“I wrote a song. Now, I’m not suggesting I write a song unless…” his voice trails off and he waggles his eyebrows winningly but your stony face is answer enough.

“Yes that’s what I thought. In any case with me by your side your loneliness is eased and if being there doesn’t communicate a more welcoming message I can at the very least defend your honor.”

You laugh, the sound foreign to your ears.

“And how will you do that?” you ask.

“I… will figure that out!” he vows.

“Can I ask you something,” you ask, growing serious again and avoiding his eyes.

“Anything.”

“What do you see? When you look at me? What do I look like?”

He considers the question and then pulls out a journal and quill from his travelling bag. You try to lean over and see what he’s doing but he pulls the journal away from your sight, tsking at you and telling you to be patient. Your stomach twists in knots as he glances between the journal and you and just when you’re about to lunge for it, he makes a final flourish and hands you the book.

A sob wracks through your body the moment your eyes meet the page and a trembling hand covers your mouth.

“I’m not an excellent artist but I don’t think it’s so bad,” Jaskier says, concern furrowing his brow. You can’t form words for a while, the jagged sobs seemingly endless as Jaskier rubs your back, confused but trying to be supportive until your sobs break into something that sounds a little less heartwrenching and then breaks into laughter. You look at him, eyes shining with tears and something else, something a bit more hopeful and new.

“It’s me,” you whisper, pointing to the drawing. The drawing of the face you saw in your reflection as a child, just older. The face no one has ever seen until this man who’s looking at you like you’re insane but also very relieved that you’d stopped crying. Well, not entirely, but they seem to be happy tears now.

“Yes I know,” he says.

“No, Jaskier, Jaskier, it’s me,” you can’t explain what this means just yet. There aren’t words and you aren’t sure you understand yet yourself.

“I see you,” he says, wiping away some of the tears again, leaning in closed to rest his forehead against yours, “I see you.”

There are those who spurn fairytales. They dismiss the stories of destiny and of a love that cannot be repelled by curses or the weight of a life heavy with trauma. You know better.


End file.
